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and FRIENDSHIP 

CLAY M.GREENE 

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COPVRIGHT, 1 921 

By CLAY M. GREENE 

SAN FRANCISCO 



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NOV 14 1921 '"" 



TO ADOLPH B. SPRECKELS 

IN GRATEFUL APPRECIATION OF 
THE FRIENDLY ENCOURAGEMENT 
THAT INSPIRED THE MAKING OF 
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FOREWORD 

This collection of 'varied reminiscences along 

the devious pathways of a checkered 

career is published merely because 

my friends wished it and 

my 'vanity yielded 






CONTENTS Page 1/f^iL Jj^> 

A BASKET OF FLOWERS 69 

A BIRTHDAY SONNET 73 

A FANTASY 72 

A MEMORY 4O 

A PARAPHRASE 88 

A PROTEST 39 

A RETROSPECT 63 

A REVERIE OF BOHEMIA 1 8 

A SENTIMENT 64 

A VISION 60 

ABSENCE A FRAGMENT . . 52 

AD FINEM . IO9 

ADELE 27 

AH, PRETTY JANE ! 47 

ALIBI 99 

AN ACROSTIC 94 

AN ADVENTURE 83 

AN ANSWER IO 

AN AWAKENING 57 (^lf) IJ/T 

ANTICIPATION 20 

AT A BACHELOR'S DINNER 50 

CIRCE 96 ^2 

COME, BE THOU MINE! 62 V\\ (f 

COMPENSATION 9 

CONDOLENCE 97 

CONFIDENCE 3 

dissatisfaction 98 

enchained 78 

fancy's promise 79 

farewell to a friend . . . . . . -74 




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CONTENTS 



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FRIENDSHIP 3 

FORGIVENESS 6 

FULFILLMENT 38 

GOODBYE, JOE COYNE ! 84 

GRATITUDE 4 

HER 4I 

IF EVERYONE ^ 

IN A GIRL'S ALBUM 49 

IN SYMPATHY . . 80 

INVITATION IO3 

JEALOUSY 6l 

love's angling 95 

on the death of general jo. wheeler . . 82 

quatrain 34 

secret love 12 

separation 53 

sent with a bottle of wine 55 

SHE 68 

SINTA MAZA I4 

SOMETIMES 13 

SOME DAY 42 

SUZANNE IO5 

SYLVIA 21 

THE ACTOR 89 

THE BACKBITERS I06 

THE BLOT 17 

THE BRIDAL IO7 

THE BUBBLE 71 

THE COMING OF VIRGINIA 93 

THE CONVERT I08 




CONTENTS Page 

THE DREAM 56 

THE FOUNT OF YOUTH 66 

THE GIRLS, THE OTHER GIRL AND THE BOY . . l6 

THE GROUND-BREAKING J 

THE HONOR ROLL 5 

THE REVELATION 24 

THE SEASONS 86 

THE SIGH OF THE SURF 22 

THE SILVER WEDDING j6 

THE SOUTHERN SENTINEL IOO 

THE TRIFLER II 

THE TRYST-BOWER 75 

TIME AND TIDE MUST WAIT 35 

Ull TO A FLIRT 74 

TO A LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY ..... 48 

TO A LITTLE GIRL C8 

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Tn TO ALEXANDRA CARLISLE 46 

TO A YACHT 43 

TO FRANK UNGER 28 

&\ TO GEORGE T. BROMLEY 44 

TO HENRY WATERSON 8 1 

TO I. S. H 92 

TO VICTOR HERBERT 70 

TOMMY QUINN IOI 

UNSATISFIED 59 

WE TWO 65 

WHAT SHALL IT BE? 87 



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VERSES OF LOVE, SENTIMENT 
AND FRIENDSHIP 



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FRIENDSHIP 

There is a chord that beats in every soul 
With endless melody. Its music thrills 
The heart of ice; its rhythms can control 
With graceful cadences life's sorest ills. 
No pen that man has made can half extol 
Its priceless worth. The waves of Fate may roll 
With reckless fierceness on the Sands of Time, 
Wrecking men's lives on Disappointment's Shoal, 
Yet, still this chord will twang its song sublime. 
'Tis endless as Eternity, it cannot die; 
For, when the spark of life has died away, 
'Twill sing in Spiritland its sweet refrain. 
This song is Friendship, boy, and you and I 
Must place our souls beneath its mighty sway, 
That it may sigh concordance 'twixt us twain. 



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CONFIDENCE 

tt-iar better to battle the blows of Fate 

|H Than embark on Despair's dark stream ; 

•*• For there's never relief that can come too late 

Whilst the promise of Faith may gleam. 

There is never a right but is braver than wrong, 
Nor a sorrow whose sting can endure so long 

That the feeblest and frailest may not grow strong 
If he trust in Illusion's dream. 



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GRATITUDE 

ome, Retrospection, till I lift the veil 
That shields a checkered life, 
And woo my memory to many a tale 
With song and revel rife. 

Thro' disappointment, anguish and despair, 

And loves grown stale and cold, 
There shine fair visions far past all compare 

In Lambdom's merry fold. 

I wandered and ye opened wide the gates 

To give me rest within, 
Where Manhood scorned the malice of the Fates 

Nor frowned on worldly sin. 

I prospered and ye placed within my hand 

The scroll of leadership; 
I failed, yet still ye gave me fresh command 

'Midst praise of speech and quip. 

Then sickness, debt. Ye turned not yet away, 

But made me Friendship's child; 
Thwarted unrest; Ambition, long astray, 

Once more my hopes beguiled. 

Now thro* the cloud-rifts gleams my gratitude 

For ye my dream time's best, 
And I would on some idle hour intrude, 

This message from the West. 



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THE HONOR ROLL 

Charles Frohman, Charles Klein, Lionel Walsh, Ernest Lambart, Norman 
Tharpe, Walter McCutcheon, Reginald Barlowe, Lewis A. Stone, Earl 
Metcalfe, William Harrigan, Everett Butterfield, Basil Broadhurst, 
Robert I. Aitken, John Willard, Oscar Leiser, John Devereux, Robert 
Warwick. 

Mdst the music, and the glitter, and the 
laughter of today, 
Hold in reverence brave brothers who 
shall come not here to play. 

Who amidst the deadly carnage of the seething 

battle line, 
Pause between the blinding volleys to their 

memories entwine 

With the scenes of Lambs at Gambols 'midst the 

plaudits of the fair, 
That can soften madd'ning echoes belched from 

out the cannon's blare. 

Some are gone away forever, laid away in 

honored graves ; 
Some are sleeping that dread silence 'neath an 

ocean's cruel waves. 

Some in pained and fevered day-dreams find 

their solace 'midst the gloom, 
In mind pictures of the homeland, mirrored in a 

barrack room. 



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There are others, who, responding to the call of 

chivalry, 
Are in cheerless tent lines waiting for a summons 

o'er the sea. 

So, for all of these a heart-throb and an orison I 

pray, 
'Midst the music, and the glitter, and the 

laughter of today. 



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FORGIVENESS 

Safer the soul that can slights outlive; 
Stouter the heart that can wrongs forgive; 
Happier the conscience that buries deep 
The recollections that made it weep. 

Evil must fail in the battle with Good; 
No sin that excuses the shedding of blood; 
Far better to lighten the burdens of Hate 
With mercy that's ever inviolate. 

For Vengeance is ever a sightless thing 
That sees not the rue in its cruel sting, 
Nor the certain remorse full of Pity's glow 
For the bleeding one writhing beneath its blow. 



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THE GROUND-BREAKING 

To Mr. and Mrs. A. B. Spreckels on the laying of the 
corner stone of the California Palace of Honor 

Sing to me, Muse, for I would twang my lyre 
l In tuneful harmony with roundelay, 
Anent a mother fair, and noble sire, 
Who gave to History and Fame today 
What stirred my soul to patriotic fire, 
And sentiments that never shall away. 

Upon a height majestic, where the sea 
Murmured upon the shore its soft refrain, 
Gathered a city's throng that seemed to be 
Full of soul-praises for this honored twain, 
Who reigned in undisputed majesty, 
O'er wealth's great realm of power not won in 
vain. 

For power too oft is wielded for the strong; 
Too oft denies the weak the strength to live. 
But these two ever sang the soothing song 
Of Charity, that liveth but to give, 
And poured from out their store not filled 

through wrong, 
Nor leavened by deceit's prerogative. 

I saw these two honored with reverence, 

Upon that wondrous height, by those who came 

To bow in thanks untinged with dull pretense, 



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For that their gift to Memory's fair fame 
Might live forever, in proud evidence 
That they revered each fallen hero's name. 



And when their son turned that first spade of 

sod, 
I saw their faces flush with love and pride, 
That one with rocky path of life untrod, 
With no hope unfulfilled nor whim denied, 
Had done his mite for those who rest with God, 
And who, in spirit, smiled on that hillside. 

Then when a mother, through a soldier, gave 
A silken banner unto her I knew, 
In memory of a son's unnumbered grave, 
I saw the best a shattered heart could do, 
To give to her, who held in awe the brave, 
The starry symbol of fell battle's rue. 

A nation's gratitude unto this pair, 

For this vast monument to bravery! 

A city's love, for that they make more fair 

That beauteous height beside the sighing sea! 

And holier, too, for here each mourner's prayer 

Shall find its solace in fond Memory. 



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COMPENSATION 

We both are all wrong," said my loved 
one to me. 
Had she thought that if we had been 

right, 
There'd be many a day, 
With two hearts all astray, 
And two natures despoiled of delight? 
Two souls torn apart that were made to be 

one; 
Two lives with their hopes all awry; 
Two minds that have thrilled 
With hopes unfulfilled, 
Two passions to languish and die? 

How oft are we right in this world, 

O my own, 
Save in giving our souls what they crave ? 

Why should hearts that have sighed 

Have their blisses denied, 
When despair can be laid in its grave ? 
Let us ever be wrong, when to hunger is right; 
Let our secret with each other dwell; 

If my Heaven must be 

But to steal you from me, 
Let me live in our bliss-builded hell. 



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AN ANSWER 

Love ? 

Why, know you not that I've forgot 
More than you Ve known, except in 
dreaming? 
That flood of blisses streaming 
Across life's page without a blot 
Is better known to me 
Than ever yours can be. 

Love! 
'Tis never happy when 'tis deep, 
For its today doubts of the morrow, 
And with the doubts come dread and sorrow 
That cause the dearest joy to weep, 

And smiles are only sighs; 

Know you this love of lies ? 

Love? 
'Tis never unalloyed and pure, 
For every throb has had its staining, 
And known its jealousies so paining 
To those who seek its tempting lure 

Of fond caress and kiss. 

Know you a love like this ? 

Love! 
Why, girl of mine, did you but know 
How this my heart bleeds when it doubts you, 
And yet would break were it without you, 

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You'd never wound it so, 
By smiles on others cast. 
Is your love half so vast? 

Love ! 
There is some power can point the way 
To love that hath no cloud portending, 
And bliss that never finds an ending. 
And it will only come that day 

When doubts have drowned their 

strife 
In two sweet words : My wife ! 



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THE TRIFLER 

Away with sighs when we can conjure smiles; 
l\ Welcome the laughs that scoff the Canter's 
**• *" wiles ! 

Strew we our pathways ever with the flowers 
That spring from seeds sown in those midnight 
hours 

Midst wine's inspiring showers. 

This beauteous world is all too full of stress 
On deeds, and words and aims of soberness. 
So fill we up our lives with trivial things, 
Lest seriousness interpose its flings. 

And clip Good Nature's wings. 



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SECRET LOVE 

Was it a sin to love, my love, 
When none might know of our deep 
devotion ? 
When naught but the peeping stars above, 

And the plaintive sighs of the breeze of ocean 
Were told of the wealth of our secret love ? 

Was it a sin when the lonely heart 

Hungered and sighed for the sweets of affection ? 
When the fathomless depth of the Love God's art 

Baffled custom, and form, and forebade 
reflection, 
And appealed alone to the passionate heart? 

Was it a sin when thy lips met mine 

On that mossy bank 'neath the moonlit willow? 
When my sensuous soul was commingled with 
thine, 
And thy throbbing breast was my cheek's soft 
pillow, 
And thy burning kisses were merged in mine ? 

Was it a sin, love, that wild embrace, 

That entrancing hour in the throes of passion? 

Was it a sin when I covered thy face 

With the kisses of lust in the old, old fashion, 

And we tightened, and tightened that wild 
embrace? 



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There was no sin, O my love, my dove, 

And what if there were ? Let us revel in sinning, 

And live in a Heaven of secret love, 

Prolonging the sweets of that fair beginning, 

Be lovers till death, O my love, my dove, 
My darling, my idol, my secret love! 



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SOMETIMES 

Sometimes, when hope seems all but 
dead, 
Our minds to bitter words are led; 
Sometimes the jealous soul's deceived, 
By thoughts that else were not believed. 
Sometimes, again, the heart tells lies, 
To find what often trust denies. 
But there's another sometime, dearie, 
When souls doubt not, nor grow aweary. 
Come this sometime, somewhere, some day, 
Uniting hearts too long astray. 



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SINTA MAZA 

The Moving Spirit of 
The Huckleberry Indians 

Sing to me, Muse, in that staunch man-song 
That is sinew and bone of a Friendship strong. 
That is loyal as light to the dawning of day, 
That hath wanderings long which go never astray 

Like the amorous sighings of youth. 
But are stronger and firmer as years roll on, 
With nothing but man-lore to dwell upon, 
With hearts that can thrill with the might of men, 
And souls all aflame to inspire the pen 

That is dipped in the ink of truth. 

Those only can share in this song with me, 
Who've quaffed of its strains on a mimic sea 
Which bears on its bosom a rock-bound isle, 
All astir with the hearts that know only the guile 

Of a good pal in search of another. 
Where there is no voice but's attuned to glee, 
And never a soul but hath seemed to me 
To throb like the pulse of a thing of might, 
And shout but the peans of wild delight 

That come with a new-found brother. 

Afar, midst the throngs of a stranger land, 
I've dreamed of the feasts of this brother band, 
And seen in the visions that thralled me then, 
A promise that soon it must come again, 
And bid sluggish veins awaken 



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To pleasures that spring from the friendly seed 
Which those only sow who are dead to greed; 
WhoVe builded their revels from stones of youth, 
And sealed every soul with a bond of truth 

That Time hath not moved nor shaken. 



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To the infinite joy of this winter's night 
Hath an exile returned and his heart is light; 
For it giveth a promise of joy to me. 
When the summer hath wakened that slumbering 
sea, 

With the bloom of long days of revel. 
And I read in the faces that smile on mine, 
And hear from warm lips that are moistened in wine, 
The welcome to be on that wonderful isle, 
Where there's nothing but play and the welcoming 
smile 

That scorneth both fame and the devil. 



Ye never shall know of the meaning to one 
Who was clinging to life that was all but done, 
To be bidden so oft to those merry times 
On that Island of Revel where manhood rhymes 

With the palpitant hearts of friends. 
For there never was one but the lesson has taught, 
That the burden of years which our fates have 

wrought, 
Can be lightened anew with the youthtime thrills, 
And the strengthening balm of the cup that fills 

With a man-love that never ends. 



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But alas! there were those of that magical isle, 
Who will greet me no more with the hand-clasp and 

smile 
That were wont to make stronger the thrills of a day, 
Driving all of the clouds of misfortune away, 

And leaving me youthful again. 
So, memory's thrall shall be always there, 
And keep ever its spirit smiles everywhere, 
To gladden the hearts of the gladsome throng, 
And leaven their cups with wine that's strong 

As the passions of manly men. 

Now my heart close to your hearts would nestle 

alway; 
My thoughts and my pen shall be lured into play, 
So that what I have learned may be given to you, 
For I wot of no band that's so loyal and true, 

Be your orgies as deep as they may. 
My trust and my manhood I'll barter for yours, 
For I know that your hearts are aglow with the lures 
That bring to the weary that comfort and rest 
Of a life that but lives for the joys that are best, 
And the thrills that die not in a day. 

Let me pledge ye this toast, merry tribesmen of 



Drown the sighs for the sleeping in flagons of wine, 
And drink to that wakening certain to be, 
When we revel no more on that isle by the sea, 
And are met on Eternity's shore: 







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To the well cherished dead we've entrusted to God; 
To the brothers He touched with his chastening 

rod, 
That some might be spared for our revelling nights, 
And the summer days wedded to strong man's 

delights 

And Friendships to live evermore. 



THE BLOT 

A gem hast thou in brilliant mind 
Whose radiance floodeth far and wide; 
^ Thou'rt beautiful, and rich, and kind, 
And Charity hast ne'er denied. 

Thou hast a lustrous, melting glance 
Whose magic fire drives doubt away; 

Thou rulest with sweet arrogance, 

And gather hordes, proud of thy sway. 

Ah, thou'st an hundred charms, and still 
Each one is tarnished by a blot. 

Sincerity's majestic thrill, 

Mightiest of all, thou hast forgot. 



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A REVERIE OF BOHEMIA 

Here in my study, looking o'er 
The broad Atlantic's gleam, 
Lit by the silver summer moon, 
I sit alone and dream. 
An hundred voices raised in song, 

Entrance the bustling strand, 
And pairs of lovers glide along 
Like spectres hand in hand. 

Whilst many a pleasure, freighted shell 

Floats o'er the silent deep, 
Lulled by inspiring music's spell 

I seek the peace of sleep. 
And in that sleep not scenes gone by, 

But those that be today, 
I see beneath my native sky, 

Three thousand miles away. 

Fanned by the soft Pacific breeze 

In California's clime, 
I stand beneath her giant trees 

Majestical, sublime. 
The very linnets pipe again 

That cheered my boyhood's ear; 
It is the selfsame wood and fen 

That memory brings me here! 



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O mighty forest of the West, 

sighing spires of God ! 
O grand Cathedral, full of rest, 

O flower-bejewelled sod! 
My spirit wanders forth to ye, 

And present in my dream, 
Are shifting scenes of mirth and glee, 

And revel's tireless stream ! 



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In thy vast chancel poets sing 

Of Friendships firm and true; 
I hear enfeebled voices ring 

With manhood come anew. 
And songs in cadence low and soft, 

And songs that swell with mirth, 
Float through thy columns and aloft, 

To cheer the God of Earth ! 

An hundred spirits, brothers all, 

Are gathered at thy shrine, 
To sing in praise of absent ones, 

And pledge their healths in wine. 
Then are the voices hushed in sleep; 

Stilled are the sounds of glee, 
And back my spirit comes to weep 

That dreams can never be. 



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ANTICIPATION 

A little longer, love, and I am thine! 
Ah, let me linger yet a little while. 
In this sweet dream of fond anticipation. 
Be patient — soon thou shalt be mine, all mine, 
And I would these my last free hours beguile 
With blest expectancy of fascination. 

I'll lay me down and ask, can this be true; 
I'll ponder o'er your burning pledge of love 
Exchanged for mine when we were lovers 

dreaming. 
I'll live our blissful trystings all anew, 
And, gazing in the jewelled vault above, 
Dream that deep into mine thine eyes are 

beaming. 

And when my muse bids me to dream no more, 
And I begin to crave the tempting truth, 
Then will my passion-secrets, self-revealing, 
Become thine own to love thee o'er and o'er, 
And yield the loyalty of pulsing youth, 
With sweet resignment, not one thought 
concealing. 



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We loved each other once, fair 
dove, 
So deep, that we were held in sway 
By what did seem the maddest love 
That ever led two souls astray. 

We sailed afar across the blue 

Wafted by passion- freighted wind; 

We read each other's thinkings through, 
And left all earthly cares behind. 

We lingered long on every kiss, 

And sighed, and nestled face to face, 

And knew that all there was of bliss 
Was centered in each wild embrace. 

You married. But I lingered still 

With trysts that our two loves begot, 

And every dream awoke the thrill 
Of youth-love that is ne'er forgot. 

And then you wrote that we must meet 
As friends; we'd been too long apart. 

Ah, temptress ! Once more at your feet 
I lay my all;forgiving heart. 

Friends ? No ! The gods that rule above 
Created love for such as I, 




And, living in our world of love, 

We'll dream, and kiss, and kissing die! 



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THE SIGH OF THE SURF 

Rolling, rolling, rolling, 
In from the boundless deep, 
Freighted with mighty secrets 
Entrusted me to keep. 
Bearing upon my bosom 
Shadows of many a past, 
Yet can no human read me, 
History deep and vast. 

Rolling, rolling, rolling, 
Oft in the twilight gray 
Pass I the scores of maidens 
Gamboling in my spray. 
List'ning, I hear them prating, 
Each of some lover bold; 
Revealing sinful secrets 
That never should be told. 

Rolling, rolling, rolling, 
On to the glist'ning strand, 
Pass I two dripping sinners 
Standing hand in hand. 
No room to pass between them, 
But, circling them, I found 
That both were secret lovers 
Treading forbidden ground. 

Rolling, rolling, rolling, 
I splash another pair, 

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Rolling, rolling, rolling, 

Hear I the gossips say 

How, nearly all about me 

In something is astray. 

Strange, too, they are mostly women 

Who ill of woman speak; 

And, bitterest among them, 

Those who themselves are weak. 

Rolling, rolling, rolling, 
My ever-changing tide 
Thinks of its earthly mission 
And nothing else beside. 
Whilst thou, O world, unkindly, 
For thoughts of gain or pelf, 
Lay bare the faults of others, 
Unmindful of thyself. 




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THE REVELATION 

Ah, dearest one! 

If, in the silence of those mystic hours 
When conscience holds communion with the 
soul, and woos the heart to pity, 
You'd pause awhile and wrest from fate its secret, 

hid so long, 
Perhaps another heart you lured from where it 

wandered, 
Might learn to know why she has been so pitiless; 
Why it has loved, and loved, and loved so much, 
That other loves, once truly deep, are all forgotten, 
Even although those loves were happy ones, 
And this is not. 

Ah, dearie mine ! 
Mistake me not, when I confess that in this love, — 
So deep, that if I knew I'd never look upon your 

face again, I'd love you none the less; 
So deep that even memories of other loves are dead 

as flowers that winter's blasts have withered, 
I have found all but peace. 
As widowed ones love on thro' years of endless 

wooing, 
And love the dead that once have made them 

happy. 

Ay, all but peace! 
And this I never knew from that enthralling hour 
when first my love was born, 

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Till now when it is fierce as fire and deep as are the 

boundless heavens. 
Who lures a love like this 
Should yield unto that love more than a mere share 

of love returned. 
And yet, two loves that loved, two other loves 

betraying, 
Perhaps should bear the sting of loving when the 

world may never smile upon it, 
And let its secret slumber until the fate I spoke of 

wakens it 
To that one blest existence that brings peace to 

love. 

So, sweet beloved ! 
Kiss we our kisses that are lies to all but us ! 
Live we in those embraces that are mysteries save 

to you and me, 
And, if some other love must still endure to 

blemish its perfection, 
Live we two on until that one other fade away, 
Or Hymen bind us two in one. 
But be it only one. 

Let there be never semblance of another love, 
Nor even woman's dearest pastime born of 

coquetry. 
For my poor heart doth hurt enough already, 
And I do love you so, I love you so ! 



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THE GIRLS, THE OTHER GIRL 
AND THE BOY 

These do I covet far beyond 
All other earthly things I know; 
For every thought that's pure and fond, 
Seems builded on the endless glow 
Of blessed peace that comes to me. 
Wherever they may chance to be. 

These do I love a thousand times 

More deeply than all other loves. 

My heart with theirs beats tuneful rhymes 

Of endless melody that proves 

How Fate was kindless in that she 

Reserved them not for only me. 

This have I hope for that is fair 
Above an hundred springtime gleams; 
And if but Destiny be fair, 
Or God be just, then shall the dreams 
I dream of them all truthful be, 
And find fulfillment sweet thro' me. 

The girls and boy were then a tide 

Upon ambition's mimic ocean; 

The boy became his nation's pride, 

The girls enslaved by that devotion 

Which even tenderer can be, 

Than the deep love they won from me. 

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Then, were the other one alone, 
Of girls and boy by love bereft. 
But I would place her on the throne 
Hope builded for the last one left. 
Again the blessed first to be. 
For them, for faith, for love, for me. 



ADELE 

Golden hairs have turned to silver 
Since we parted, you and I ; 
But the years have not been sad ones 
As they slowly glided by. 

For a face was ever near me 
In my musings and my dreams; 
Giving life to things of fancy, 
Wreathing care with golden gleams. 

Thine the face that lingered near me 
Since the moment that we met; 
This the only cloud that haunts me: 
Hast thou learned how to forget? 



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TO FRANK UNGER 

On hearing of his fotal illness 

ast night I lay upon a couch amid peaceful 
atmospheres that were full of messengers 
from out of the past. 

My head was pillowed on fragrant flowers of 
memory. 

The coverlet whereon I lay was cushioned with 
soft fabrics fresh from the looms of friendship. 

Into the warp and woof of it there were strands 
of recollection, threaded in graceful 
knottings to the tales of many loves. 

These glistened under the soft lights from the 
atmospheres above them, and, as if by some 
magic unbelievable, they sang into my soul 
a sweet refrain which told me that no 
memory was dead. 



In my soft musing I lived again each of the 
memories here spread before me. 

They seemed as clear and vivid as though they 
had grown into being only yesterday. 

Some of the loves were sweet, and thrilled my 
veins with the same throbs that came at 
their birth. 



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Some were idle and flitting as the lives of hive 
drones, and their footprints upon the path- 
ways of time were just as valueless. 

Some were blind and foolish, and I sighed to 
remember that they had ever been at all. 

But there was one that outshone all the others, 
and had grown stronger and deeper amid the 
sunshines and disappointments, the shadows 
and the unfulfillments of the years. 

So, too, it was with the friendships that peopled 
this filmy thought-dream of memory. 

Some were strong and true; instinct with the 
brawn and muscle of big manhood. 

Some came and went, now as in the past, and, 
leaving, wrote upon my soul the truth that 
selfishness had created them. 

Many, just as some of the loves had been, it were 
best they had never sprung into ephemeral 
soullessness. 



But one of them, like that love which never 
passed out of my life, shone brightly, 
resplendently above them all. 

In his face there shone the soft light of a woman's 
soul, yet in his hand was the firm grasp of a 
giant. 

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On his lips there never trembled the words of 
blasphemy, and his soul was as free from 
evil as the kiss of the godly from sensuousness. 

Yet he was man in every fibre, and his every 
heart-beat kept stalwart harmony with 
those of manly men. 

Now as I gloried that I had builded this friendship 
about my soul in walls of flint, there came a 
message writ by a friend almost as true as he. 

He was sick unto death and I could not fly to him. 
His head was heavy and my hand was helpless 
to raise it. 

His lips were parched and I could not give them 
drink. 

His hours were lonely, yet I could not be there to 
people them with merry beings from out 
that bustling world of hallowed memory. 

If I were only there I could make him laugh or 
weep at will. 

If I were there I could make him to forget that 
there was such a thing as pain, with that 
unerring balm that comes with man-love for 
man-love. 

God of the good and the evil, the just and the 
unrighteous, give me to feel that this exile 
be not eternal. 

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Give me to say what only I could say and bring us 
both contentment. 



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Shone there then, strong through those atmos- 
pheres above my couch, a shining star that 
broke the silence with my shout of joy. 

Its name, O friend, was Hope Fulfilled! 

O beloved pal of mine, that star bids me hope. 

We shall again foregather with the best; be merry 
with song and drunken with wine, then give 
unto all to know that only you and I were 
perfect friends. 

Weeks then of silence and foreboding, and when 
I sought my couch again, lo! the Star of 
Hope was dull and darkened. 

The atmospheres above it were heavy with the 
clouds of doom, and out of them poured rains 
of tears. 

Flashed on the wires came then the message to 
say the end had come, that Hope Fulfilled 
had lied again, that my friend was dead. 

The voice that had sung a thousand songs of love 
and friendship was hushed forever! 

Nature's tears of rain and dew fall from the giant 
trees he loved, for he was Nature's son. 




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She loved him as he loved her, for he was loyal to 
her as she to her best beloved. 

The heart that had sown the seeds of an hundred 
fond affections can beat no more, but its 
throbs shall live in the memories of those who 
cherished them and loved them, as doth the 
flowers their morning dew. 

The fingers that have strummed through days and 
nights, sweet strains of melody from home 
and stranger lands, are stiff and cold, but who 
shall say that they are not graven upon the 
ears of those who listened ? 

Yea, my one friend that was perfect, is dead! 

Gentle hands laid him to rest beneath the skies 

he loved best, and the sweet songs of Christian 
and Pagan united in requiems for him. 

These words George Sterling wrote and read above 
his bier, and I who knew him best of any man 
can say amen, sweet friend, farewell until we 
meet again ! 



A voice is mute, that had no word of hate, 
And one gone forth who shall not come again; 
A comrade true, a friend compassionate, 
Tender and true, a soul without a stain." 



[32] 



IF EVERYONE 



If everyone meant all that everyone says, 
What a dreary old world this would be! 
If everyone knew all of everyone's ways, 
Why, everyone always would be in a haze 
Of doubt and distrust, don't you see? 

If everyone knew all in everyone's mind, 

What a life this would be of distress ! 
If everyone were not a little bit blind, 
Why, no one could be unto anyone kind, 
Nor hold him in blessed duress. 

If everyone tore away everyone's mask, 

What a sorry awakening, dear! 
If everyone worried thro' everyone's task, 
Why, no one would dare aught of anyone ask, 

For doubt is the nestling of fear. 

If everyone were but to everything true, 
Why, there'd never be need of a lie; 

If everyone everyone's faults could undo, 
Then everyone's kiss would drown 

everyone's rue, 
And all the world's sorrows defy. 



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TO A FLIRT 

I have wondered, oh, so often, in these 
wanderings of mine, 
If there really be a woman with the vaunted 
truth of wine. 
With a heart not tired of loving, and a conscience 

all revealed, 
And a soul that's never praying for its evils to be 
healed. 

I have wondered, oh, so often why it never yet 

could be 
That the kiss of her I love most hath not always 

been forme; 
That there's always been some chasm for my path 

of bliss to span, 
And the last most cherished idol's mindful of some 

other man. 







QUATRAIN 

As blosoms love the sun, as stars the night, 
Z-\ Old age peace undisturbed and youth 
** *■ delight; 

As pain loves balms that heal, and sighings glee, 
And sorrows laughter, sweet, so love I thee. 



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TIME AND TIDE MUST WAIT 

AN ALLEGORY 

Characters 
Time Tide Myself 

time 
(To me) Come, come, you loiter. Art not satisfied? 

MYSELF 

No, something's lacking. I appeal to Tide. 

TIDE 

My heart's with his. Like me it comes and goes, 
And life to him, like mine's, all ebbs and flows. 

TIME 

That moves me not. Flotsam and Jetsam, too, 
Were his to search. 

MYSELF 

But all my lifetime through, 
Hath neither brought me what my star foretold. 
Hopes were destroyed; searched I in vain for gold; 
Those that I loved best died, Ambition, too. 
And well-aimed purposes all went askew. 
Give me to try again. 

TIME 

Not young enough. 
Success awaits but those of sterner stuff. 

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Your day is nigh. Remember Time and Tide 
Wait for no man. 

TIDE 

That I have denied. 
As far as I'm concerned, I'll flow tonight 
And ebb again tomorrow. Now we two 
Appear to go together. 



TIME 

What wouldst do? 



Play dice with Fate? 



TIDE 

Ay, life is but a toss; 
Man wins, he loses, but there is no loss 
Ambition can't regain. 

TIME 

But his is dead. 

MYSELF 

True, the ambition that to greatness led, 
But there's another dearer far to me. 



TIME 



What is it? 



MYSELF 

I would have my life set free 
From ogres that have clouded it with doubt; 



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Worms that have gnawed my heart within, 

without. 
There are destroying evils I'd dispel, 
To make a Paradise of what is hell. 



You mean the world ? 



TIME 
MYSELF 

Of course. 

TIME 



You made it so. 




MYSELF 

That's true enough, but listen: There's no woe 

But there's a joy to heal it. There's no sorrow 

Without the laugh to dry its tears. Tomorrow 

Hath good to down the evil of today. 

Not young enough ? Leave that for one to say — 

If such there be alive — who hath the power 

To cause me to forget that dark'ning hour 

When once again I loved to find I'd erred; 

I'd breathed a prayer that but a wanton heard, 

And led me into hells of doubt. She lives ! 

As there's a God who mortal sin forgives, 

So must there be some power, Time, to decree 

That what Fate hath denied my destiny 

Is mine to win. 

TIME 

Thou art in love again ? 



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MYSELF 

I am afraid so, but, like other men, 
I erred in that too. I shall err no more. 

TIME 

And is your heart still young? 

MYSELF 



Yea, to the core. 



TIME 



Then luck attend you. I will wait with Tide, 
For hearts that hunger should not be denied. 

{Exeunt.) 



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FULFILLMENT 

Is there a woman to adore, 
Even though truth be dead? 
Beats there a heart to drown the score 
Of loves forgot and fled ? 

If such exist, lead me, O Fate, 

To her, and bid me cast 
Aside all memory; the mate 

Fve sought were found at last ! 



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A PROTEST 

little more of faith 
That breeds no wraith, 
A little more of courage from her 
soul; 

A little more of bliss 
Born of her kiss, 
And I shall soon have reached Ambition's goal. 

For 'twould seem hardly just 

That loves can rust 
In cruel separation's bitter gall, 

When only one command, 

One trustful hand, 
Could place us two 'neath Love's eternal thrall. 

Justice indeed is blind, 

And Faith unkind, 
If soulless ones can laugh when lovers weep; 

If those who live through sin 

Can proudly win, 
While for the blameless ones Hope lies asleep. 

O God who rules above ! 

Who counselled love, 
Why grant success to those of pelf and lust, 

When mated ones, apart, 
v Bleeding of heart, 
Have nothing for their travail and their trust ? 

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Thrice touched my ringers hers, then 
passed away 
Life's fairest vision into memory. 
Then comes back retrospection, for I see 
Again the face that thrilled my soul one day, 
Lit by the fairest eyes that ever shone! 

Our lips are wide apart as earth from sun; 
Our hopes forefend a kindred recompense, 
Still am I thrilled, musing again on her, 
Picturing blissful hours that never were, 
And then, misleading reason, fact and sense, 
Paint me a stream of bliss that cannot run. 

Men live to die, hopes come to be dispelled; 

Dynasties fade away and nations fall. 

But this soul-dream of mine, scornful of these, 

Buildeth its fabrics, airy as the breeze 

Of summer's morn, and grieveth not at all 

For that her hand may ne'er in mine be held. 

Strange art thou not, O love that hath no wound; 
That needs no kiss to seal thy bond of faith, 
Nor a caress to drive mistrust away? 
Yet thou'rt as true as is the night to day; 
Without a longing, fearing, pang or wraith, 
For thou'rt a grail that was not sought nor found. 



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Thou shalt endure, strange love, while yet we live, 
Albeit she nor I may never know 
What each doth of the other feel or care 
Yet thou'rt a love as potent as thou'rt rare; 
Thou know'st no envious pang nor jealous flow, 
Hath nothing to forget, none to forgive. 




There is no thought of mine 
For things that were; 
There is no dream divine 
But is of her. 

There is no other kiss 

My soul can stir; 
There is no dream of bliss 

But is of her. 



Close in her arms I lay, 

My soul awhir; 
My sighings are astray 

Whene'er with her. 

Staunch as the rugged pine, 

Or graceful fir; 
Make her, Gods, ever mine, 

Give me to her ! 



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SOME DAY 

Some day it will come, 
The loving with believing; 
When she will rest 
Upon a breast 
That she fears is deceiving. 

Some day it will come: 
The trusting with devotion; 

The ins and outs 

Of burning doubts. 
Now baffling true devotion. 

Some day it will come: 

When but one voice will call me; 

And only she 

Will come to me 
To hold me and enthrall me. 

Some day it will come, 
With all its thousand blisses, 

Its ripened hours 

Now only flowers 
Of thrills, and throbs, and kisses. 

Some day it will come, 

When days are years without me; 

I'll patient be 

If only she 
Will learn no more to doubt me. 

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TO A YACHT 

Prophetic name thou surely hast, 
Fair Goddess of the summer sea; 
From keel to truck thy lot is cast, 
Good Fortuned sprite to ever be. 
Fond fantasies of cheer thou'lt bear 
To balmy shores where Revel's king; 
Decks manned by all who scoff at Care, 
Thy cabins freighted by the ring 
Of laugh and song, 
The whole day long, 
Fortuna! 

Ah, not alone thy name portends 
Thy never failing wealth of bliss; 
Thy destiny is one that ends 
But with the chill of Time's last kiss. 
For once thy pleasure cruises o'er, 
Then shall thy merry mission cease; 
But Fortune blessed thee with the store 
Of Friendship, revel, rest and peace, 

That shall be thine 

While stars can shine 
Fortuna! 



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TO GEORGE T. BROMLEY 

On his Eighty-fourth Birthday 

Thro* years that never aught but manly lustre 
shed, 
He whom we feast today has laughed at Time, 
And, with the reaper in his hand, lopped off the 
head 
Of each conspirer 'gainst the bond sublime 
That seals man's heart to man's. 
Thro' days, and nights, and weeks, and months of 
merry years, 
That rugged heart of his has only beat 
For Friendship and for Friendship's cause, nor 
sighs nor tears 
Have stilled its endless flow of nature sweet, 
That held Bohemia's clans. 

Thro' countless revels that were big with song and 
wit, 
His voice rang out, the blithest of the best; 
His tongue framed words as sage as Plato's 
greatness writ, 
His soul enlisted to an endless quest 
For natures lost to joy. 
On every atmosphere he breathed the life of cheer 

Wreathed all in smiles. Men loved him better far 
Than ever woman loved her lord. For none sincere 
As Friend-love, which no jealous lust can mar, 
Nor passion's thrill alloy. 



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Thro' orgies that have youthful vigors drowned in 
wine, 
And strong man's wits transformed to tongueless 
things, 
His wine-proof mind, as though controlled by 
hands divine, 
Poured thro' his lips as smoothly as on wings 
His quips of jest and song. 
Then, when the nascent day dethroned the waning 
night, 
And glared on Kings of Revelry laid low, 
This King of Kings reigned, sleepless victor of the 
fight, 
And wit and song rang still in joyous flow, 
All thro' the whole night long. 

Thus, thro' these merry years from one to eighty- 
four, 
This good old man hath lived without a foe, 
Save him who laughs at Friendship's care destroy- 
ing lore, 
Or closes mind and ear its thrill to know, 
Or rails at all emotion. 
And thro' the coming years,— please God, a score 
at least, — 
Let us each natal day in revel meet; 
Unite our merry souls with his in drunken feast, 
And, till the next, his joys be full and sweet, 
And boundless as the ocean. 



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TO ALEXANDRA CARLISLE 

Could I but crown thee beauty's best, 
Then were its dearest diadem 
Already thine. Now doth the quest 
For womanhood's most radiant gem 

Find in thy glance the peaceful tide 
Of thrall forever satisfied. 

When Nature, bountiful, bequeathed 
The mirrored splendors of her spell 
Upon her chosen queen, she wreathed 
Its flowers on thee; ringing the knell 
Of vaunted rivals, in an age 
When beauty rules the mimic stage. 

Now dost thou rule with matchless grace 

W 7 hile dignity vies with thy art, 
To limn the glory of a face 

Bright with the glow from woman's heart, 
And who doth win that heart? Ah me! 
That worthless man so blest can be! 

Time was, when in the crowded stalls 

I echoed plaudits of a throng 
That, fettered by a woman's thralls, 
Crowned her with admiration's song; 
Enthroned her queen of beauty, then 
Enchained the memories of men. 



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Then earnest thou, and harking back 
Far in the maze of Memory's mist, 

There stood another in the track 
Of her once by perfection kissed. 

I woke, I thrilled, I knew that then 
The faultless Neilson lived again. 



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AH, PRETTY JANE! 

Ah, pretty Jane, ah, pretty Jane! 
/-V I fear I've loved thee all in vain. 

I fear thy heart knows no pulsation 
Responsive to my fascination. 
And often I have had a thought 
While struggling with this wild unrest, 
That my fond love, although unsought, 
Deserveth not thy flippant jest. 

Ah, pretty Jane, ah, pretty Jane! 
Doth there no hope for me remain ? 
Come! Be thou frank and all confiding; 
'Tis time my fate thou wert deciding; 
Whate'er it be, I promise this: 
To love thee though my heart thou'lt sever, 
AncL dreaming of a phantom bliss, 
Rest happy in that dream forever! 



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TO A LADY ON HER BIRTHDAY 

A gleam of sunshine came one day 
ZA Suffused a home with light, 
^ ^ And on its golden bosom lay 
A jewel brought from far away 

Enrobed in pink and white. 
O bounteous sun ! O day benign 

That gave that priceless gem 
For gentle hands to intertwine 
Midst other pearls of rare design 

In a mother's diadem ! 

'Twas but a day 'mongst other days, 

For often, o'er and o'er, 
The same sun's joy-encumbered rays 
To happy homes brought songs of praise. 

Such gems were made before, 
But this day to one loving breast 

Was fairest of its kind: — 
This jewel was of all the best 
The guerdon of a lover's quest 

By hope and faith designed. 

The day came every year again, 

Sometimes brought with it tears, 
And then the sun shot shafts of pain, 
Like cruel, blinding floods of rain, 
To drown the hopes of years. 



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Dead? No! A lover true and bold 

Brought to the jewel rest, 
And offered peace and love untold, 
Then showered it with affection's gold 

And pinned it on his breast. 

No day now but is bright and fair, 

The sun sheds only light, 
And bears no shadow on his brow, 
The jewel beams upon us now, 

And cheers our hearts tonight. 
That day, sweet friend ? It gave you birth. 

The sun? Devotion true. 
The lover? He whose manly worth 
Made you most blest of all the earth. 

The j ewel ? 1 1 was you. 



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IN A GIRL'S ALBUM 

If thy maturity the sweet charm brings 
Which now so nobly ornaments thy youth, 
Thou wilt be worthy to be sought by kings, 
A very queen of womanhood and truth. 

And when that day has come, I hope to see 
The consummation of my fancy's whirl: 

The little friend, admired at Sunapee, 
As grand a woman as she was a girl. 



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AT A BACHELOR'S DINNER 

Given to William F. Humphrey 

There's power in criticism made in fun, 
And who'd condemn equivocation's jest? 
But neither criticism, joke, nor pun 
Has ever gotten "underneath the vest." 
For there equivocation's heart's concealed; 
Into its depths no flippancies intrude, 
And there cheap wit sleeps, ever unrevealed, 
Beneath the throbs of Friendship's gratitude. 

We write what we are told to write sometimes, 
And think what we are asked to think, because 
Incisive prodding is best done in rhymes, 
And there's some glory in amused applause. 
But in the dignity of Friendship's call 
There tolls the knell of Ribbald's epitaph, 
And I were rather dumb beneath its thrall, 
Than moved to noise impelled by Humor's laugh. 

So whispers Conscience to my heart tonight, 
When bidden to this merry feast of friends 
Foregathered in the strength of Manhood's might 
To further seal the bond that never ends, 
But is as boundless as the round of Time; 
Sealed unto trust inspired by Fealty's word; 
And so, I ever keep in tuneful chime 
Sweet Memory's cadence by affection stirred. 



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He whom we honor here with manly lust 
To show what loyalty can do or feel, 
Was chosen for his seat of power and trust, 
Where he might Wisdom's plentitudes reveal. 
And I have chosen him to stand supreme 
Amidst the memories that cannot fade, 
For when tired effort languished in a dream 
He spake the words from which sweet hope was 
made. 

And even though that hope were not fulfilled — 
For hopes are vaunting things oft leaped in vain,- 
I'll not forget keen disappointment killed 
When he awoke ambition once again. 
I'd not these cumbrous platitudes impart 
To merry minds, foregathered but to jest, 
Save that I'd voice what's in a grateful heart, 
For that he sowed new courage in my breast. 

He softened age, brought smiles into its home; 
Now I would spread that heart with Friendship's 

pen 
Upon the pages of fond Memory's tome 
Where are remembered only worthy men. 
Now let me laugh with you, and drink with you 
Till I be drunken with inspiring wine; 
Stand unabashed on Revel's brink with you, 
Where, Cant's unmasked and only Truth may 

shine! 



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Where envy can forget the greeds of Trade, 
And thro' whose hazards only truth were won; 
For here are only friend-communions made, 
So now, a toast to Bill, and I am done; 
Live he as long as Worth and Wisdom live; 
Be there no lull in Fortune's winning strife; 
Come there no wrong that he cannot forgive, 
And find he woman good enough to wife! 



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ABSENCE 

A Fragment 

There's a chill in the heart when we say 
good-bye, 
And a palpitant throb of pain; 
There's a hungering soul, and a lonesome sigh 
When we look for the face in vain, 
That has beamed with delights 
Thro' the days and the nights, 
And yet, never a day nor a night can die, — 
For in absence we live them again. 



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SEPARATION 

Wild as a lion in leash I sighed for freedom, 
So burst my duty's bonds that held me 
fast, 

And, with a bound, stood in the world again 
With naught to stay me. There within my sight 
The beck'ning summits of the city's hills 
Dared me to mount their sunny battlements, 
And with a laugh I bounded at their gage. 
O hallowed God of earth ! How all my soul 
Throbbed then to know that I was free again 
To hold communing with myself alone ! 
How every nerve thrilled new to know that I 
Was for a time to 'scape the palling gloom 
That hung about a chamber wooed by death! 
Now should the memory of sweeter things, 
The tuneful thoughts of an unbridled mind, 
Lull me to day-dreams long since strangers to me. 
But ah! No thought save one, no face save one, 
No dreams save one, and all of her 
Appeared to light my freedom's fantasy. 
For every sun ray seemed to be her eyes, 
And in the sun itself I saw her face. 
The gentle breeze that sang down from the sea 
Fell on my cheek and seemed to be her kiss. 
Alone I walked and yet was not alone, 
For everywhere there seemed a voice from her 
To cheer my loneliness, and in my soul 
Inspire the thought that she was at my side. 

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Then, when my feet grew sore I sat me down 
And once again revealed my soul to her. 

Loved one of mine," I said, "again, again, 
And yet again, let me declare to you 
That, till the day I told you of my love, 
No other woman e'er was loved before! 
Until that madd'ning hour when first I held 
You close against my heart and burned your cheek 
With that first kiss of passion long asleep, 
No man or woman knew what passion meant. 
And in the days that ripened into months, 
And through the months that broadened into 

years, 
That love and passion grew, and grew, and grew, 
Until it seemed that we must conjure death 
To waft us into undiscovered worlds 
Which teach of other passions, other loves." 

I love your hair, your eyes, your cheeks, your 

lips, 
Your ears, your throat, your shoulders and your 

breasts, 
And oft, to prove the ardor of my love, 
My lips have pressed them all a thousand times ! 
And I do know I wasted not my passion, 
For all these kisses I have had from you, 
Upon my body, every one in kind. 
If there were times when, in my jealous rage, 
I hurled against you words to cut and wound, 



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They only proved the ardor of my love, 

And passions that were grandest when they stung." 



A steeple clock rang out the evening hour, 
So I kissed back the soft caressing breeze, 
Then came again into my saddened home. 
But it was fairer, sweeter, brighter now; 
For I'd brought with me from the city's hills 
The spirit presence of my absent love. 



SENT WITH A BOTTLE OF WINE 

Together we sipped at the wine one day, 
We chatted and trifled the hours away, 
But you never knew 
As we revelled them through, 
That something was stealing my something away. 

Ah, was there a spell that was subtle and fine, 
A charm that was hid in that bottle of wine? 

Or was it your smile 

That was heavy with guile: 
The something a-stealing my something away? 

Your blessing bestow on the tribute I send, 
And let it all manner of somethings portend. 
^Something like unto bliss, 
Something sealed with a kiss, 
Be it something to cause all my somethings to end 



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THE DREAM 

I dreamed of you last night, — 
Ah, such a dream! 
Bright visions of delight 
Enslaved my wond'ring sight, 

And it did seem 
I held a velvet hand, 

And glided through 
Some rapture-laden land 
Whose joys I could command 
If there with you. 

For you and I were there. 

Fond lovers we; 
We wandered everywhere, 
And pictured fancies rare 

Of ecstacy. 
The hours grew into days, 

The days to nights, 
And we thrilled through a maze 
Of love's ten thousand ways 

To lure delights. 

Then I awoke and sighed 
That phantoms lie, 

And leave naught else beside 

An ever-shifting tide 
Of memory. 



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This dream must never die, 

But live anew; 
Have I the faintest gleam 
Of hope to live the dream 
I dreamed of you? 



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AN AWAKENING 

Speak to me, conscience, leave no truth 
untold, 
For if I love her not, then would I know 
Why all my lifetime's wraiths have turned to gold; 
Why day and night is one sweet, sighless flow 
Of fond delirium; why full of glow 
This blood of mine, but yesterday so cold, 
That every heart throb seemed a sigh of woe. 
My conscience answers not — my heart's too bold. 

Nay, then, I know that silence e'er consents. 
Mind, to thy work! Brain, hasten thou to prove 
That, all else dead, 'twill be enduring still: 
This mad wild passion that's the reverence, 
The all in all of an eternal love, 
That time, nor law, nor fate can ever kill. 



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I wonder why, sweet little girlie, 
That when we meet I seem to see 
A something midst life's hurly-burly 
That draws you very close to me. 

I wonder why your eyes are bluer 
Than any little girl's I know; 

Why every glance of them is truer 
Than all I see where'er I go. 

I wonder why you find me staring 
At eyes, and face, and sunny smile, 

And longing that I might be sharing 
The love you're shedding all the while. 

I know, sweet one, for I remember 

A little girlie just like you, 
Who promised for my life's December 

All of the loves sires ever knew. 





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And that is why, sweet little girlie, 
I can't help staring at you so, 

And why, midst this life's hurly-burly, 
You bring back that blest long ago. 



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UNSATISFIED 

Why is my only joy my deepest sorrow; 
Why must my wildest hopes be unfulfilled? 
Why this bliss of today leave for the morrow 
But anxious doubts refusing to be stilled? 

Ah, love of mine, she whom thou lovest never 
Paused to reflect upon how mad thou art, 
Or she would stab thee not with words that ever 
Disclose that all mine own is not her heart. 

O hope of mine ! Why must this burning sorrow 
Be all the keener when thou seemest bright? 
Why send me pain when every throb I borrow 
Brings never hope in dreams of day or night ? 

There is one hope: that what is now foreboding 
May be but, after all, my burning soul 
Mad with the fire of what is only goading 
And tempting me to find her own hope's goal. 

If this be so, then shall I bear my sorrow 

Until the struggle end, and I receive 

What she hath promised for the sometime morrow > 

And till that come, Fate, teach me to believe. 

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A VISION 

A jewel set in nebulae of gold, 
/^V All sparkling in the radiance of youth; 

A flower whose glory never yet was told, 
If ever sage or poet spake the truth. 

A girl far fairer than I've seen before, 
A woman worthy of a thousand loves; 

A charioteer ne'er matched in ancient lore, 
A beauty spotless as the breasts of doves. 

An idler I, looks from a gaping throng, 
Upon that vision bright of white and gold, 

Whose lack of years denies the wooer's song, 
Whose adoration must not yet be told. 

If, in this tribute to a living gem, 
I have exceeded modesty's demand, 

If plucking you from Nature's diadem 
Has been impertinent, why, here I stand 

Upon the right of Fancy's dreams to live, 
And ask you to forgive. 



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JEALOUSY 
TTT Thy is it, love, the more you 

* The more my soul's afire ? 
Why, when my jealous rage you stir, 
The greater my desire ? 

Why is it, love, when other men 
Are happy 'neath your glance, 

That I seek your embrace again, 
And flaunt their arrogance? 

Why is it, love, when I have known 
That you were false to me, 

I placed you still on fancy's throne 
And loved in ecstasy? 

Why is it, love, I've said good-bye 
An hundred times, and still 

Returned to you to drown your sigh 
In trustful rapture's thrill? 

Because, my love, that jealous woe 

Must ever conquered be, 
When what you taught me long ago 

Is told again to me. 



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COME, BE THOU MINE! 

Come, be thou mine, mine, mine alone, 
For by the Gods I madly love thee! 
Thine eyes within my soul hath shone 
Far brighter than the stars above thee, 
Come, be mine own ! 

Come, be thou mine! Within my breast 
Fve found a love that's just beginning. 

'Twere thine but for one faint request, 
And though 'tis love that dreams of sinning, 
It is my best! 

Come, be thou mine! I will not say 
I've loved no other long before thee; 

But memories past I'll drive away, 
If thou'lt but bid me to adore thee 
By night and day! 

Come, be thou mine! Was that a blush 
Upon thy waxen cheek soft creeping? 

Ah, was it the responsive flush 

Of yielding love that hath been sleeping? 
Hush, darling, hush ! 

For thou art mine, mine, mine alone, 
Bound by a tie but death can sever; 

Chained by a sin love can atone, 
If thou'lt live in my heart forever, 
My all, my own ! 



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A RETROSPECT 

It had been for the best, dearest one of mine, 
If, when we met that day, you had not touched 
my hand. 
Then we'd have never heard Fate's pitiless 

command 
To seal a bond of love before another's shrine. 

It had been for the best when, once, I bowed my 
head 
And touched my lips to yours if you had turned 

away, 
For then would not have come this warning of 
today 
That two loves like to ours, alas ! were better dead. 

It had been for the best, that night, afar, alone, 
When you shrank not beneath my first enrapt 

embrace, 
If you'd not let me rain my kisses on your face, 

For then nor you nor I had filched another's throne. 

It had been best, perhaps, but then nor you nor I 
Could have been glad to thrill beneath forbidden 

bliss, 
Or revel in the thrall of every stolen kiss, 

Createpl by untruth, and glory in the lie. 



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A SENTIMENT 

A year for thee, Laura, as full as can be 
Of the joys that true happiness knows; 
Of sighings, and sorrows, and cares ever free 
As fair Caribbee's shores are of snows. 

Come there never a hope but is fitly fulfilled, 

Nor a wish that is ever denied. 
Come there never a sigh by Love's magic unstilled, 

Nor a care by Love's kiss undefied. 

Be thy faith never blind, nor thy trust undeserved, 
Nor the love that thou givest misplaced; 

Be thy wooer the kind whose stout heart never 
swerved 
From the paths that staunch loyalty traced. 

In the sleep-dreams thou hast be there never a 
sigh; 
In the day ones no cloud of regret; 
Through the wearisome hours be there one ever 
nigh 
Who can prove there are true lovers yet. 

I dare not tell all that my heart could reveal; 

I would not say less than is here, 
For I sigh for consents that will bid me to steal 

Every hour of each Happy New Year! 



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WE TWO 

pair of dancing eyes aglow with passion; 
A pair of lips that tempt the lover's kiss, 
Which, if but nurtured in the old, old fashion, 
And taught the raptures of affection's bliss, 
Might drive from out my life Care's every trace: 
This is thy face. 

A pilgrim to the shrine of wild desire, 
Alas ! too oft defeated in his quest, 
Hath found in you the latent spark of fire 
That stirs the smould'ring flame within his breast, 
And bids him hope for one responsive sigh : 
This, love, is I. 

Two souls new burning with the same hot shafts, 
And arms that scorn each wild embrace to shun; 
Two mouths that sip at once the same sweet 

draughts, 
Two lives foresworn to merge them into one, 
And dream of ecstasies no power can leaven: 
This, this is Heaven ! 




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THE FOUNT OF YOUTH 

Huckleberry Island, N.Y. 

I languished, a slave to the city's greed 
For the things that are foes to health; 
I chafed 'neath the sting of the galling need 
That inspires not the Kings of Wealth. 
I loosened the fetters of toil's fell grip, 
And fled with a joyous bound. 
To the riverside, and a waiting ship, 
And sailed for the Merry Sound. 

There were breezes there, and the swish of 

waves; 
There was cheer full of Friendship's truth; 
But I couldn't escape from the deep'ning graves 
That were yawning for dying youth. 
And I cried aloud in the waning power 
Of a vigor that daily sped. 
Ye Gods ! Have I come to the last fell hour 
When the things that are new are dead? 

And is there no place where new fancies dwell; 
No Fount where there's youth on draught? 
No shore for a rest from the toiler's hell, 
That's afar from the lusts of graft? 
I ask not the pride of a golden fame, 
I scorn vapid form's duress; 
God give me abandon that's lost to shame, 
And the freedom that laughs at dress! 



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My bark, sped along by the summer breeze, 

Drew close to the dim outline 

Of a rocky isle topped by pigmy trees, 

That were dwarfed as this hope of mine. 

We nearer drew till we touched the shore; 

I stood midst the sounds of glee; 

My ears were thrilled with the magic roar 

Of Friendship in revelry. 

It was found at last, and I sighed no more 
For the days that were passed and gone; 
Here were fairer days than I'd known before, 
And as wild as e'er looked upon. 
And I pledged my love to this friendly band, 
For they taught me that youth can live 
So long as there lies in the true man's hand, 
The best that a heart can give. 

I shall give my best on each summer's day 

When we sail to that pigmy isle, 

For I now am one whom they taught the way 

For the sigh to become a smile. 

Here's a health to you and big wealth to you, 

And a youth that shall never end; 

For the youth I'd lost was inspired anew 

When you lured me to make me friend- 



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She met my glance, I felt a thrill, 
She smiled, — all thought of others 
fled; 
She touched my hand, my heart stood still; 
She kissed me and the past was dead. 

She told me I might come again, 
And, all compliance when I came, 

She gave my wooing hope, and then 
My sadness bore another name. 

She bade me flee with her afar; 

She guided me from prying eyes; 
She taught me what true blisses are, 

And weaved the spell that never dies. 

I pressed my lips close to her face, 

She pressed my head close to her breast; 

She lingered long in my embrace, — 
I learned all that in life is blest. 

She has been all in all to me; 

She taught me what I'd never known; 
And promised then to ever be jgg 

The Empress of affection's throne. 



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A BASKET OF FLOWERS 

A basket of flowers that were fresh and fair 
Z-% As the promise of childhood's dream, 
*• They placed in my hands, and I held it there 
Till its fragrance enveloped the lamplight's glare 

And sweetened its festal gleam. 

They told me the blossoms had come from you 

As a tribute to gathered years, 
That garnered life's pleasures, its friendships true, 
And learned all that goodness and evil knew, 

'Midst its dreamings and blessings and tears. 

'Tis sweet in the shadows of growing age 

To learn that the fair can remember 
How truly their gifts can the cares assuage 
Of a youth that hath fled, and adorn the page 

Of fair Memory's gray December. 

And down thro' the years I shall keep those blooms 

You sent me that birthday night, 
Just as fresh as they were in the lighted rooms, 
In Memory shrined to besweeten the glooms 

Thro' the gloam of life's gathering night. 






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TO VICTOR HERBERT 

On his Fifty-first Birthday 

A year ago, Victor, in vintages mellow, 
We pledged your half century run; 
L Tonight, friendship's cup we have filled and 
to spare, 
With hearts in the wine and a thrill in the prayer 
That God bring but peace and success to a fellow 
Who hath honored Fame's years fifty-one. 

Blessed fifty-one years ! Each a page in the story 
Of a soul Genius juggled from Fame, 
Then filled full of melody sweet, and the art 
To thrill and to throb with the beat of a heart 
Attune with ambition to fight for the glory 
That lies in the power of a name. 

That name has been writ on the book of the ages, 

It will live till our greatest be dead; 

But the heart that must die we have filched for our 

own, 
For 'tis filled with a power that is sweeter than tone, 
And tempered with tune-lore from dreams of the 

sages, 
Whilst fifty-one years gaily sped. 

There are loves, Victor friend, that are revels of 

blisses; 
There are others that live upon sighs; 






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Some are sweeter than flowers, others fiercer than 

fire; 
Yet there's never a one but some day must expire 
But man's love for his pal, that's not builded on 

kisses, 
Can live till Eternity dies. 

From the Friendships as deep as the bed of the 

Ocean, 
Victor boy, we have culled the most true; 
And the gift, pledged in wine, that is pure as the 

glow 
Of your fifty-one years, and as sweet as the flow 
Of your languorous melodies full of emotion, 
We offer tonight, boy, to you ! 



THE BUBBLE 

Blind as the throb of a love that's 
dead, 
Still as the voice of the skies; 
Beauteous thou wert as thou onward sped 

To a realm that is built of sighs. 
For thou diedst as soon as thy being came; 

Were destroyed by an atom's thrust; 
Ah! then, is life's bubble an empty name, 
And hope but a fleck of dust? 



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A FANTASY 

I've loved and lost, then loved again, 
Till it has seemed to me 
That loving best were love in vain 
And loveless I must be. 

My wildest fancies came to naught, 

No woman e'er was true; 
I steeled my soul 'gainst love that's bought, 

And then — then I met you ! 

And, meeting you, came back again 

The hungerings of yore; 
Fate seemed to link our souls, and then, 

My heart was light once more. 

Then I began to dream a dream 

That made me long to live 
Within that never ending gleam 

That only love can give. 

I fancied scenes where you and I 

Lived in a world of bliss; 
Blest by a love that cannot die; 

Strengthened by passion's kiss. 

And every time our two lips met, 

We'd pledge our vows anew, 
And closer weave Love's tangled net 

In meshes close and true. 



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Oh, tell me not I hope in vain; 

Say not your heart is chilled 
With thoughts of coldness and disdain 

For him whose soul you've thrilled. 

But place my image in your breast, 
My soul beneath your sway, — 

I'll be a slave to each bequest 
And love my life away! 



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A BIRTHDAY SONNET 

Sent to an elderly lady, with a miniature of Youth 

All those purloining years from Father Time 
/"\To their own age diminish, really steal 

The very keystone of that arch sublime 
That spans the glory of a lifetime's weal. 
For if that life is pure and full of leal 
Too many years there cannot be, — for youth 
While teeming with delights but youth can feel, 
Knows not the joy of ripened trust and truth. 
Thus has it ever been, dear friend, with you; 
None of your years has felt the blush of shame, 
So every added one but whets your pride, 
And in your woman's face there's more that's true, 
Than hath this girl within its golden frame 
For your life-trust is proved and hers untried. 



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Farewell, farewell ! Affection's sigh 
Was never breathed with more regret. 
The bonds of Friendship's holy tie, 
Were never stronger, firmer met 
Than now, as I bid thee good-bye, 
Good-bye ! 

Farewell, farewell! Life's turgid stream 
Shall wend its fitful journey through; 

The glory of thy youthful dream, 
May fire ambition's soul anew, 

But ne'er forget a friend's esteem. 
Adieu! 

Farewell, farewell ! You must fare well, 
For new-born ardor fires your soul. 

Fear not if ill luck's flimsy shell 

Should clog thy path to fortune's goal. 

Remember, industry must tell — 
Farewell ! 

Farewell, farewell ! When I am nigh, 
Within thy thought, consult thy heart, 

And know that lovers' love's a lie, 
For 'tis a bond a word might part, — 

But Friendship true can never die, — 
Good-bye ! 



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THE TRYST-BOWER 

And this the world of bliss if dreams could be, 
/"\ln which forever I would live with thee: 

A blest existence born of youthtime fire, 
Devoted each to each, brain, heart and soul; 
Foredoomed disciples of a mad desire 
Which two warm natures place beyond control. 

A mirrored chamber hid from Scandal's storms, 
Reflecting each position of our forms; 
Portraying fair hope-pictures which would 

change 
With every new caress and every kiss; 
Painting love vistas wondrous fair and strange, 
One vast kaleidoscope of pulsing bliss. 

And here we'd hide away from prying eyes, 
'Midst garnered stores from loveland's argosies. 
We'd feed each heart-thrill from this goodly store, 
And fan to flame love's embers o'er and o'er. 
Then, even though we never met again, 
Time would recall a tryst not kept in vain. 



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THE SILVER WEDDING 



Ring out the bells with a joyous peal! 
A joy that no thought of care is dreading; 
A joy that is fraught with the brightest weal, 
And the Star of Love its rays are shedding, 
O'er the happy throng 
That with gift and song 
Have come to the Silver Wedding. 

Ring out the dreams of the years of bliss ! 

Awaken the spell of the magic potion 
That came with the joy of a lover's kiss ; 

That was leavened and sweetened by Youth's 
emotion, 

Then found its goal 
In a woman's soul 
And the strength of a man's devotion. 

Ring out the thread of this lovers' tale, 

So wondrous and fair in its dreamy telling! 
Ah me! That this feeblest of pens should fail, 
When my Friendship's soul with a wish is 
swelling, ■ 

To sing of the life 
Of the faithful wife 
Who graces this happy dwelling. 

Ring out a toast to the honored twain! 
Ring out the bliss of a love undying; 



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Lost be their future to Sorrow's stain, 

As the flakes of snow on the white drifts lying; 

Be their coming hours 

All bestrewn with flowers 
And their souls ever free from sighing. 

Ring out the thought I would fain impart, 

Where the Silver Wedding bell is swinging! 
Pealing the pride of a husband's heart; 
Out of the past fondest memories bringing 
The mem'ries of youth, 
The mem'ries of truth, 
And the songs of affection singing. 

Ring out the bells with a joyous clang! 

As the path to a Golden One they're treading, 
They dream of the love that from children 
sprang, 
And stronger and bright through the long 
years spreading, 

Until soul unto soul, 
They have come to the goal 
Of this wonderful Silver Wedding. 



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ENCHAINED 

I wonder when 'twill end, 
This life of hidden sorrow 
That seems to bliss portend, 
Yet hath no morrow 
But bodes of hopes defied, 
And dreams fulfilled denied, — 
I wonder when ? 



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I wonder when 'twill cease 
This struggle, cruel, bitter, 

That never soul gives peace, 
Nor thrall its glitter, 

But something steps between 

To dull its gladsome sheen, — 
I wonder when ? 



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I wonder when 'twill close 
Its chapters full of lying; 

This love-tale sad that shows 
But Destiny's decrying 

Of that fair fabric built 

Of passion, bliss and guilt, — 
I wonder when ? 



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FANCY'S PROMISE 

They tell me your eyes are as black as night, 
That your hair hath the color of molten 
gold; 
That your hand can respond to the lover's clasp 
With the passionate thrill of a lust untold. 

That your bosom will heave with a thrill of delight 
In the sensuous flush of a love that's new; 
And this was the vision of longings bright, 
When they told of the joys I could find in you. 

And so I have lived in this wonderful dream, 
And fancy hath made me your lover bold; 
And oft in the night it would almost seem 
I held you tight clasped in mad rapture's fold. 

And ah, how I love in those dreamings so fair, 
That are cheering my soul on its wandering way! 
If they were not lying, those phantoms so rare, 
How madly we'd revel the night into day! 



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IN SYMPATHY 

What is there pity's bleeding heart can say 
To soothe the sorrows of this darkened day, 
Unless it be to lift the heavier pall 
Of stricken souls that have been robbed of all? 

What is there in the eyes that weep with you, 
To staunch the flow of tear showers ever new, 
Unless it be to look with them afar 
To that beyond where waiting lost ones are ? 

What is there lulled ambition can decry, 
Thro' heavy clouds with every roll a sigh, 
Unless it be to seek ambition's lures 
Amidst the wrecks of others lost like yours ? 

What is there manhood's master hand can steal 
To prove how keenly manhood's heart can feel, 
Unless it be to filch for you from Fate, 
Thrills of new courage ere it be too late? 

What can the voice of sympathy uplift 

From out the mires where hopes have gone adrift, 

Unless it be to speak with you as one, 

Those words so hard to say: "Thy will be done!" 



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TO HENRY WATTERSON 

I ask thee not to weep not, friend, 
For tearless hearts are those that sever 
And leave behind sighs without end, 
For stricken souls that bleed forever. 

I bid thee not say, " It were best," 

This blow that dimmed thy closing page, 

For it denied thee peace and rest 
To ease the burdened hours of age. 

I pray that God may give thee power, — 
If there indeed be power Divine, — 

To lighten every coming hour 

Of her whose wound is deep as thine. 

For it were sad indeed to know 

That two lives with all gladness flown 

Must fade beneath a kindred blow, 
And bear their throbs and stings alone. 

I ask thee, friend, but only this: 
Ere that first pang of grief expire, 

Take from my heart the pitying kiss 
Of one Fate made a childless sire. 

Perhaps 'twill weave a gentler tie 
Between two souls all dark within; 

For^ Friendship's thrills can never die 

And Friendship's tears breed hearts akin. 



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ON THE DEATH OF 
GENERAL JO. WHEELER 

List to the bugle, O heroes in blue. 
Hark to the death-roll, O sons of the gray ! 
Weep for the chieftain, long tried and 
found true, 
Whose name's writ on memory's tablets today. 
Droop, droop, starry banner, for him who once 

fought you 
Defending a right that he bled to maintain, 
Then, when a foeman's spite threatened, he brought 

you 
The might of a sword never wielded in vain. 
Forgetting the gray in the call of the blue; 
Remembering naught but that soldiers are true. 

March, grizzled comrades of old, to his bier! 
Halt, Federal braves with palmetto in hand! 
For he that did honor to both lieth here, 
Bestrewn with the flowers of a sorrowing land. 
Ah, read in that silent form bravery's story; 
Ah, hear in the beats of a throng's muffled tread, 
The tribute of love to a patriot's glory, 
Enrolling a soul midst the great that are dead. 
Forgot he the gray in the call of the blue; 
Remembering naught but the danger to you. 

Hark ! From an isle in a tropical sea, 

There cometh a wail that is tearful and deep; 



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No one more deserving of honor than he, 
In freeing a people who knew but to weep. 
Borne soft on the breezes this message of sorrow, 
Sped swift o'er the waves of a murmuring sea, 
Entwining the yesterday into the morrow, 
To mourn for a hero who battled them free. 
Forgetting the gray in the call of the blue; 
Remembering naught but that soldiers are true. 



AN ADVENTURE 

Only a glance that was arch and shy, 
Yet it told a volume as I passed by, 
Looked at her 
And wondered if that was a smothered sigh. 
Would it were! 

Only a smile that was meant to kill, 

And it filled my soul with a madd'ning thrill, 

And a pang. 
For she'd murder hid in the depths of her eyes, 

'Neath her bang. 

Only a smirk ! Not a word to say, 

As she lifted her satchel and passed away, 

Out of sight. 
But Would she allow me to lead her astray ? 

Not tonight! 




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GOOD-BYE, JOE COYNE 

It's too bad to make light of good-bye, Joe, 
In the revel and souse of a " bat/' 
But 'twould seem the best way 
One's excuses to play 
On the thirsts that old Bacchus begat. 
And perhaps it were best, after all, Joe, 
To enliven the sighs of the years, 

With communion of friends 
That so very much lends 
To the drying of impotent tears. 

We have bid you good-bye oft before, Joe, — 
You were chasing the bubble called fame, — 

But nobody dined you, 

Nor flattered nor wined you, 
For you'd never a gloss to your name. 
But conditions are different now, Joe: 
Success lit oblivion's gloam; 

For when you came back 

You'd made a good crack 
At becoming an idol " at 'ome." 

You had captured the hearts of the best, Joe, 

Princes begged you to make them your pals; 
Wealthy dowagers, too, 
Sized your date-book anew, 

Not forgetting some donahs and flals. 

They were poor fish that came to your net, Joe, 




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But the fishiness didn't offend; 

For you knew, in your heart, 
Some of them didn't start, 

And all means never win the same end. 

You were bidden at last to New York, Joe, 
To amuse and enlighten your own, 

And I heard many say 

In a jocular way 
That Joe Coyne had grown haughty in tone; 
That you'd been Piccadillyized hard, Joe, 
And forgotten old Time's retrospect; 

That your monocled eye, 

And bored ennui sigh, 
Gave eclat to a Strand dialect. 

But you answered our welcoming homes, Joe, 
Just as though you'd been never away; 
And your speech was as true, 
To the Chair's bally-hoo, 
As the fountain is true to its spray. 
And the monocled eye was a myth, Joe, 
And your hand-clasp was shot at short range; 
Were it not for the sight 
Of your name writ in light, 
We should never have seen any change. 

Now good Yankees don't give a gol darn, Joe, 
If a fellow be true to his own: 



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Whether he clinks his glass 
With some millionaire ass, 
Or some crown-laden boob on a throne, 
So long as he'll clink it with friends, Joe, 
Who've shared in those struggles that tell; 
Who can chat with a joke 
Of the days we were broke; 
Of the summer weeks gloomy as hell ! 

And that's what we've found you to be, Joe, 
And that's why we've bidden you here, 
To pledge you Godspeed 
On that mission of greed 
And to hold you to memory dear. 
For we know that you'll never forget, Joe, 
Who you are, what you are, where you're at; 
And that when you return 
You'll have welcomes to burn, 
Wearing still the same size of a hat. 



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THE SEASONS 

My Spring came with hope that was full 
oflight, 

With Summer the hope grew strong; 
In Autumn 'twas dull as the pall of night, 

And the Winter's mournings long. 
But beneath the chill of that Winter's sting, 
The hope left seeds for another Spring! 



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WHAT SHALL IT BE? 

What shall it be, what shall it be, 
The result of our first flirtation ? 
Was it a passing dream to me 
Of a new infatuation ? 
Or did it foretell of a world of bliss; 

Of a feast of love unsated; 
Or was there a sign in that telltale kiss 
That our two hearts were mated ? 

What shall it be, what shall it be ? 

The love that is ever flying 
Like a restless zephyr from tree to tree, 

Which is born — but a breath — then is dying? 
Or shall it be free as the rock-bound shore 

That walleth the home of the billow ? 
Shall I know that 'twill bring to me joy 
evermore, 

When your head on my breast finds its pillow? 

What shall it be, what shall it be ? 

Oh, let me the truth revealing, 
Disclose you a heart that is warm and free, 

Full of thoughts I'd refrain from concealing. 
Let me teach you a love that is one wild dream : — 

Then, all visions of rapture disclosing, 
Our souls, full of doubt and its sighings would 
seem 

In a world of sweet bondage reposing. 

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To love, or not to love, that is the question. 
Whether 'tis better for the swain to suffer 
The sighs of solitary loneliness, 
Or take at once that heart upon his hand, 
Load it with gold, and leave for maids to play for. 
To love, to like, no more, and in that liking 
To say we end the heartaches and the sighs 
That loneliness is heir to — 'tis a state 
Devoutly to be wished. To love — to like; 
To like, perchance to dream! Ay, there's the rub. 
For, too much like a woman, dreams may come 
To picture her so plainly what she's not, 
And paint the hues of virtues ne'er to be, 
That life becomes a myth. In that respect 
We make calamity of married life; 
For who could bear her likes for other men; 
Her coquetries that foster jealousies; 
The pangs of promised love with its delays; 
Feeble excuses for engagements broken, 
When he himself might endless comfort make 
By loving no one? Who'd the burden bear 
That comes to all who live a double life 
But for the rapture-laden passion-land: 
That love-discovered country from whose bourne 
No man has yet returned unchained by bliss, 
Nor in regret for those fair ills he's won, 
And feeling there are more he knows not of? 
Thus passion doth make weaklings of us all, 



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And thus the bachelor's weak resolution 

Is sicklied o'er with woman's selfishness; 

Becomes a thing that's but a feeble toy, 

To squeak and strut whene'er it suit her humor; 

To wink askance at all her indiscretions, 

Until one's very thoughts must turn awry 

And lose the name of action. 



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THE ACTOR 

Who am I, do you ask? Why, goodness me! 
'Most anything that you might like to see, 
Or hear, or think about, seek or invent, 
And that's an actor. Thing of discontent 
Or joy or sorrow, in their many stages, 
Oft times produced, alas! for promised wages. 
And even promise kept, to be exact, 
Leaves much to be desired, for 'tis a fact 
That no vocation underneath the sun 
Demands so many talents merged in one. 
But — and I'm sure you never would suppose it, 
The manager is he who very, very seldom knows it. 
For when he lays his next production's pipes, 
His cast, he thinks, must be made up of types. 
Why on the actor's art put such restraint, 
When type's a thing of powder and of paint? 
Now he's no type of true dramatic art 
Who cannot typify 'most any part. 



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Today I am a doctor giving pills, 

And feeling pulses for a score of ills; 

And though no schoolof medecine I've been through 

I must deport myself as if I knew. 

Tomorrow I'm a lawyer, lashed to fury, 

Defending innocence before a jury; 

And I must move my audience to tears, 

Else that dread two weeks' notice surely nears. 

Now, Fma beardless youth, to hold in sway 

Acres of beauty at a matinee; 

With agony of soul in sorrow's cup, 

Because some ladylove has passed me up. 

Next I'm a burglar, masked, forbidding, bad, 

Robbing a maid after I've killed her dad. 

Then a detective, keen, alert and sly, 

With icy mien and calculating eye, 

Foresworn, however hard, to do or die ! 

A gladiator now, of giant frame, 

Risking his life for some patrician dame, 

With shield and sword in most inspiring dash, 

Which must be good, or — play all gone to smash. 

Then must I be — O strange reverse of art ! — 

Senility personified, whose flimsy heart 

Must crack and break, and clothe from top to toe 

A tottering frame in thrill-inspiring woe. 

I cast my daughter out: "Hence, erring one! 

Into the streets, I say!" Then, when that's done, 

Tomorrow night, along the beaten track, 

I play the hero bold who brings her back. 



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A villain next, refined and debonair, 
Who drags the heroine by her back hair 
Into a wood where, silent, all serene, 
I burn her to the stake with kerosene. 
Now comes my turn at comics, full of chaff, 
And all expedients that make them laugh. 
I am a Fenian, weeping thro' his smile, 
Massing his clans to free the Emerald Isle. 
" Up, boys, and at 'em ! Down with Redcoats 



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Pausing, of course, for "Wearing of the Green. ,r 

I am a Frenchman, born to taking ways, 

Thrilling my audience with La Marseillaise, 

Or, with much s avoir f aire > earning my cash 

By dashing deeds, or dancing Les Apaches. 

A German now, inspiring laugh or pain, 

With "Hoch der Kaiser! Hoch ! Auf Wiedersehen [ 

In fact, I must be any race or tongue, 

Creed, sect, or politics, or I am stung. 

So ask me not again, friend, who I am, 

For your opinion I care not a — cuss; 

Because I know, they know, and they, and they, 

That he who makes to order every day, 

Miser or spendthrift, vassal, Prince or King, 

Old age, strong youth, banker or underling, 

Is greater far than he who never knew, 

Or ever cared, more than one thing to do. 

The barber shaves, the broker talks of profit, 

Taking good care there's very little of it. 










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The lawyer pleads, the doctor sometimes cures, 
But there's no art or trade that so ensures 
That much in little as the trade I follow. 
Beside it, all the rest seem vain and hollow ! 
Be what you will, I'll be man's benefactor, 
Which is, in short, my notion of an actor. 

TOI.S.H. 

There is a sweet somewhere 
For such as you, 
In which all that is fair 
And womanly and true, 
Must shower their blessed gifts 

Upon the strong, 
And sing thro' sorrow's rifts 
Love's tireless, endless song. 

And there will come a time 

Not far away, 
When loving souls in rhyme 

Must throb and beat alway, 
To speak of gratitude, 

And to extol 
That dominating good 
Of sterling woman's soul. 

And there is made a place 

Where you shall reign; 
Where there can be no trace 
Of sigh, or care or pain; 

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And where the days and nights 

Of dreamings blest, 
Shall yield you those delights 
That come but to the best. 

But there will be no friend 

Stauncher than I, 
Who borrows but to lend 

Of thrills that cannot die. 
And who, amidst the throng 

Of spirits true, 
Must sing an endless song 
Of faith inspired by you. 



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THE COMING OF VIRGINIA 

The day that gave you birth 
Brought an imperfect earth 
From out its shadows, tenantless till then, 
A sweet prophetic face 
Destined to shine apace 

Upon the souls of women and of men. 

The day when you were born 

To woman's sphere adorn, 
Came there a wondrous influence for good, 

Which, as the days sped on, 

Left sighs and sorrows gone, 
Beneath the magic spell of womanhood. 






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The day when first you smiled, 

All manhood seemed beguiled 
With some sweet influence, to hold in sway 

Souls born to love of you, 

And, whether false or true, 
That thralling power waned not nor passed away. 

The day when we two met, 

Meseemed I could forget 
A hundred raptures won from other girls; 

Then day-dreams came anew, 

And each one visioned you 
Most lustrous of my memory's rarest pearls. 



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AN ACROSTIC 

Ever and ever may fortune attend you, 
Let all the joys of a lifetime be yours. 
In every thought that may please or 
befriend you, 
Zeal be my guide with its memory's lures. 
And in the hours when my pen groweth lazy, 
Be sweet thoughts of you the ideas to inspire. 
Even the best mind is oftentimes hazy, 
Till someone like you wakes its slumbering fire, — 
How ever with you for my guide could I tire? 



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LOVE'S ANGLING 

Twas not in rippling crystal brook 
I angled; 
Not in Diana's shaded nook, 
All verdure tangled, 
And yet my troutlet pliant was and rare, 
Eager to strike, and oh so passing fair! 
All banged and bangled. 

'Twas not upon the mountain lake 

I angled. 
Not in my wherry's shining wake 

All glist'ning drops bespangled. 
And yet excitement mounted just as high, 
Wild, eager expectation lit mine eye, 

And every passion jangled. 

'Twas not upon the bounding sea 

I sought her. 
Not on the billow-battered lea 

I found and fought her; 
But when my troutlet, pliant as a willow, 
Lay calm, resigned and smiling on my pillow, 

I knew I'd caught her. 

'Twas in the tapestried boudoir 

I angled. 
And I, as all true lovers are, 

Was all intrigue entangled. 



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And so I found my queen, and cast, and caught 

her; — 
And when of blisses ne'er to end I taught her, 
Our souls no longer wrangled. 

Can there be nobler pastime found 

Than fishing; — 
Than score of troutlets plump and sound 

For breakfast dishing? 
Ah, what excitement doth the fisher feel, 
When anxiously a'plying rod 

For two-pound grilses wishing? 

Ah yes, there's fishing greater far 

Than trouting; 
Sport that no wind nor rain can mar, 

That scorneth scoffers' flouting. 
'Tis angling for the fair and pliant dove, 
Who eager strikes the goodly bait of love, 

Resignedly, undoubting. 



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CIRCE 

Pardon for hardened breakers of the laws; 
Pardon for those who slay from feeblest 
cause; 
But pardon's not for thee who blasted youth, 
Defiled the laws of Faith and murdered Truth! 



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CONDOLENCE 

Be sure, dear friend, there is some 
recompense — 
Nor is it far away — to soothe thy sorrow. 
For there be those whose fond obedience 

Can make this dark today a brighter morrow. 

Lone one, crushed as thy heart is, 'tis not broken; 

Deep as thy grief be, it can find its end; 
For there lies balm in soft words aptly spoken, 

Thrilled through the pitying loving of a friend. 

Say that this friend, or many friends that knew 
him, 
Can prove thy lost one happier in his peace; 
How what hath chilled your soul, was ending to 
him, 
Of travail sore, that never seemed to cease. 

Say that in hours of solitude, so lonely, 

That it would seem as though thy heart must 
break, 
These friends could make you think him sleeping 
only, 
Until that day when all the dead shall wake. 

Believe, dear friend of mine, religion's scoffers 
Find never aught that can with sorrow cope; 

For nothing else that consolation offers, 

Can weave a recompense for shattered hope. 



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And, little woman, some day when your sighing 

Hath lulled a little, even such as I 
May teach that after all what seemeth dying 

Is but creating some blest bye and bye. 

Some day — and come it soon — we two together 
May look from out the shadows through the 
past, 

And find, as ships the angriest storms may weather, 
That grief can check its flood of tears at last. 

Belbrave, O widowed one! Take courage, knowing 
That thy soul's burden was his peace and rest; 

And find in days to come resignment growing, 
Until your heart shall learn 'twas for the best. 



DISSATISFACTION 

I am not satisfied, O Love! 
There never comes a day 
But there are doubts I cannot prove, 
With fond hopes swept away. 
But, in the days to come, I seem 

To see portents of light 
Which now seem all a fitful dream, 

Cloud-rifts thro' envy's night. 
Bear with me for that trust denied, 
I am not satisfied! 



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I am not satisfied, my dearie; 

There never comes a night 
Away from you but I am weary 

Of this long, patient fight 
Betwixt what is, yet may not be, 

What is not, yet must rise, 
Or else my soul were never free 

From jealous fantasies. 
Bear with me till Fate shall decide, 

I am not satisfied. 

I am not satisfied with trust 

That is not sealed by truth. 
'Tis not enough, that dreams of lust 

Restored the flush of youth. 
'Tis not enough, O girl of mine, 

To hasten when I call; 
For I must weld that bond divine 

Which makes you all in all. 
This cannot be, till you're my bride, 

Then were I satisfied. 



ALIBI 

It cleareth innocence and guilt alike; 
Its plaints equivocal disarm divorce; 
It counters blows that otherwise would strike 
At mortal sin to check its baneful course, 
But it must semblance bear of shining truth, 
And this of thine sheds no such light, forsooth ! 

[99] 




Lone guardian of thy kin's historic past ! 
Staunch at thy post when young Portola came 
To solve the problem of the darkness vast, 
Stirred by adventure and his country's fame, 
Time honors thee ! 

Thou stoodst there, first of thy Southern horde, 
When Serra's legions of the Faith sped on 

To spread in Pagan lands the softening Word 
That taught untutored minds of good undone, 
Truth honors thee ! 

When young Fremont first scanned the Western 
sea, 
Wert thou not there, breeze-stirred, to proudly 
bow 
Upon the chief that gave to History 

Lores of a land, the whole world's fairest now, 
Whose science honors thee ? 

Hail ! Silent sentinel, whose bond to Time 

No storm, nor temblor, nay, nor fire shall sever! 

Reign on thy throne in dignity sublime 
Down thro' the ravages of Time forever, 
Whilst ages honor thee ! 










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TOMMY QUINN 

Written in commemoration of Lord Dunraven's amazing withdrawal from 
the second race with the Defender, because the Regatta Committee decided 
the first race against him, Valkyrie having fouled the American boat. 

(Air: "Baby Mine.") 

How unsportsmanlike, Dunraven, 
Otherwise Tommy Quinn, 
Was Valkyrie's funk so craven, 
Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn ! 
Where's the name they say you won 
As a sport in races run ? 
What is this you've been and done, 
Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
Was it your idea of fun, 

Tommy Quinn ? 

Too polite to call you foolish, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
I'm inclined to think you mulish, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
For in truth it seems to me, 
That although a Lord you be, 
Only God can rule the sea, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
And he chose to make it free, 
Tommy Quinn. 

Did^your sailors fear immersions, 
Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 



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At the hands of those excursions, 
Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn ? 

Surely now, your mascot goat 

Could have kept them all afloat, 

It's a farthing to a groat, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 

That you had the slower boat, 
Tommy Quinn. 

I'm afraid the truth is mellow, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
That you're not a reg'lar fellow, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
Never steamboats half enough, 
Never seas that were too rough, 
Were you made of proper stuff, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
What a cheap and flimsy bluff, 
Tommy Quinn ! 

You may mail us your excuses, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
You may ventilate abuses, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn. 
You may sit you down to dine, 
Drown your woes in vintage wine, 
But your star has ceased to shine, 
Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 
So you'd best take in your sign, 
Tommy Quinn. 



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From some future Irish eyrie, 
Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 

You may contemplate Valkyrie, 
Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn; 

But Defenders fleecy ghost, 

Will be standing off the coast, 

Giving Memory a toast, 

Tommy Quinn, Tommy Quinn, 

For she left you at the post, 
Tommy Quinn. 



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INVITATION 

Shipmates ahoy ! The voice of Manhood cries 
i For forbears of the summer's pleasantries. 
Out of the lumbered shipyards flecked with 
snow, 
Each mimic ship yearns for the soul that flies 
From indolence to labor. And the glow 
Of Springtime's sun lures them from winter's sleep. 
Lo! where the frosted spars no longer weep 
Chill tears, thawed by the sun athwart the clouds; 
But glow with warmth as sprightly sailors creep, 
Cheered by the breeze of promise, up the shrouds. 

Captains ahoy! Your summer's course is laid. 
Pipe crews to quarters ! Leave is overstayed. 



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Now Neptune's wind-sprites long to thrum the tune 
Thro' lines and halliards: "Joy too long hath 

strayed," 
For there's but chill beneath the winter moon. 
'Vast idling there! But ere the capstan sings, 
Gather we all at winter's feast, that brings 
Brave hearts at rest together once again, 
To bid Godspeed to winter taken wings, 
And show that Friendship's tongue speaks not in 

vain. 

Landsmen ahoy ! So are ye welcome too. 
Our weathered mariners shall lead ye through 
The maze of vapors shed from fragrant pipes, 
Tempered by sparkling vintage poured anew, 
To pledge the yachtsman's mimic stars and stripes. 
The place, the Astor, in whose banquet hall 
Song, speech and cheer shall lift the winter's pall. 
The night, the twelfth of March — no more be told, 
Save this: that revel's hand shall lead us all 
From leaden hours to bright ones, cast in gold. 



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SUZANNE 

If Fate had so decreed and I were lonely, — 
A smileless, cheerless man, — 
Meseems that my despair would seek thee only, 
Thou merry soul, Suzanne ! 

If I were deep in grief and bowed with sorrow 

That seemed an endless span, 
I know that I could bridge it with a morrow 

Somewhere with thee, Suzanne. 

And if my life were full of lovings broken, 

With Fancy's stream outran, 
I feel one word of promise by thee spoken 

Would breed new hope, Suzanne. 

But, since I'm wed to infinite devotion 

Which no new love shall ban, 
I needs must foster only friend-emotion 

And yield thee that, Suzanne. 

Some day thy widowhood will seek its ending, 

But where, O where the man 
Whose worth and ardor were not base pretending? 

Choose wisely, sweet Suzanne ! 



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THE BACKBITERS 

Along the drift-ways of all human things, 
How often human tongues are armed with 
stings 
That indiscriminately deal their thrusts 
Under the spells of envy's biting lusts! 

How often, for that one hath gained renown, 
Another who hath failed would drag him down 
Into the mires where jealousy and spite 
Deny achievement its invested right! 

How often beauty's reputation's blot 
When judged by feeble souls that have it not, 
And, that its glory shall not hold its place, 
Seek to enshroud its glamours in disgrace ! 

How often friends are insincere with friends, 
Whose popularity to others lends 
That friendship kin to love, which should not be 
The victim of insidious jealousy ! 

How often scandal spreads its ruthless pall 
O'er sinless lives from no just cause at all, 
Save that its monger's path itself is stained, 
And so must virtue's bulwark be profaned! 

Alas ! that evil conquers over good, 

So often clouding lustrous womanhood, 

And manhood's best, when God wrought blessings 

rare, 
For man and woman, each an equal share. 

[106] 



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THE BRIDAL 

Gaze in my eyes, my love, and read 
r The story of a soul; 
How thro' a life of Fancy's greed 
Cloud-rifts of peace may roll, 
And yet their gleams shot quickly past 
Till you were mine at last, 
Sweet one, my own at last ! 

Here on my breast I hold your face, 

To dream a little while 
Of how it came to find its place 

Away from sin and guile; 
How, shutting out oblivion vast, 

I made you mine at last, 

Dear love, my own at last ! 

Here on your lips I press my own 

To seal Love's endless bond, 
Then lead you to that shining throne 

That knows no dark beyond; 
Our faith hath won, the die is cast, 

You are my own at last, 

My wife, my own at last! 



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Before no graven image bow!" 
My childhood's mentors gravely said, 
Yet told not when, nor why, nor how 
The living and the hallowed dead, 
Anointed there before the Cross, — 
A holy sign that promise shed, 
Should count the soul's infinite loss, 
Whilst the dissenter's shineless dross 
To doubt and darkness led. 

" Before no graven image bow !" 
And, as my conscience older grew, 
I shunned those symbols hallowed now, 
Which youthtime's teachings never knew. 
Thousands I saw before that shrine 
Of graven, shining, painted things, 
Receive that miracle Divine; 
Then knelt, as Faith began to shine 
And doubt had taken wings. 

Before those images I bowed, 
Inspiring symbols of a faith 
That banished sin. Then prayed aloud, 
Forswearing doubt and every wraith 
Of penitence forgot. They shed 
The blessed radiance of Truth 
Taught by the Son of God, who bled 
That faith and reason might be wed 
Unto my darkened youth. 



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Before those images I bow 
In adoration and content, 
Still with that sign upon my brow 
That vanished disillusionment. 
No more does clouded retrospect 
Bring to my soul the doubts that grieve; 
For now I know that they reflect 
The lessons that supplant neglect 
And teach me to believe. 



AD FINEM 

When life shall face its end and 
stands revealed, 
No wraith can stalk again I'd 
have concealed. 
For none left any sigh, cloud or regret, 
Nor retrospect that Conscience would 
forget. 



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HERE ENDETH THE BOOK OF VERSES OF 
LOVE, SENTIMENT AND FRIENDSHIP BY 
MR. CLAY M. GREENE, AND PRINTED BY 
RICARDO J. OROZCO, IN THE MONTH OF 
OCTOBER, NINETEEN TWENTY-ONE, AT 
NUMBER 509 SANSOME STREET, IN THE 
CITY OF SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA, 
AFTER MANY DAYS OF PLEASANT TOIL 
WHICH RIPENED INTO MUTUAL ACQUAINT 
ANCE THAT SHALL BE LONG REMEMBERED. 
THE FRONTISPIECE AND DECORATIONS 
WERE DESIGNED BY MR. RAY F. COYLE 




I 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




012 074 163 9 




